Godric's Hollow
by ilovecastiel18
Summary: In the DH book, Harry wonders why Dumbledore never took him to Godric's Hollow to visit the graves of their lost loved ones. Well… what if he did? Set sometime around Christmas in HBP. Hurt/Comfort, angst, etc. One-Shot.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters used in this story, all recognizable names, locations, and characters are property of the wonderful JK Rowling, who was lovely enough to bless us with the Harry Potter books to become obsessed with as I have.

**Summary: **In the DH book, Harry wonders why Dumbledore never took him to Godric's Hollow to visit the graves of their lost loved ones. Well… what if he did? Set sometime around Christmas in HBP. Hurt/Comfort, angst, etc. One-Shot.

**A/N: **I've been having a bit of an HP binge as I'm camping without access to the internet. These little ideas for fics keep coming to me, and who am I to deny them? Anyway, once I go back to school, I won't be writing nearly as often as I am now, so I might as well pump out as many fics as I can during the summer.

….

Godric's Hollow

….

Harry had received another summons from Dumbledore, and he was… well, curious. The note had said that this wouldn't be one of their normal meetings, where they would look at memories of Voldemort and discuss the evil man's (if you could call him a man) plans to take over the world.

This note had said that they would be leaving the grounds, that he should bring his cloak, scarf, and gloves, because they would be outside, which intrigued Harry. He couldn't think of any Voldemort-related reason that they should be leaving the grounds or staying outside for an extended period of time.

So, when the time came to go up to Dumbledore's office, Harry trudged out of Gryffindor Tower, cloak in hand, waving goodbye at Ron and Hermione halfheartedly, his mind wandering.

He absentmindedly traipsed through the halls toward the entrance to the office, letting his feet lead him as his thoughts strayed to what exactly he and Dumbledore were going to be doing.

And then he was in the office, staring at Dumbledore's silhouette near the window, where it was framed by the dying light of the setting sun.

"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore muttered, his gaze not swaying from the horizon.

"Hello, sir." Harry replied, slowly walking over so he was standing a few feet away from the professor. "Where are we going exactly?" he asked.

"It… I wanted to offer something to you." Dumbledore turned to look at him, though his face remained in the shadows that were cast through the window. The fact that Dumbledore was "offering" him something made Harry even more curious. Usually, Dumbledore just told him to do something and he did it.

"Sir?" he questioned.

"I… do you know where you lived before your… before you moved in with your aunt and uncle?" Dumbledore asked.

"Godric's Hollow, right?" Harry answered.

"Yes, well… it might interest you to know that I grew up there too." He paused, turning to look out the window again. "My mother and sister are buried there, Harry. As are your mother and father. I rather thought… well, I wondered if maybe you wished to visit your parents' graves? It's Christmas soon, I figured…" he trailed off, turning fully away from Harry. 

"Yes, alright. I've always wanted to see… well, where it happened. And this is as good a time as any to visit my parents' graves for the first time." Harry whipped his cloak behind him, clasping it in the front and tying his scarf around his neck.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to, Harry. I just thought…"

"I want to go, Professor." Harry cut him off, walking toward the door.

"Alright." Dumbledore muttered. He walked over to his desk and grabbed his cloak, wrapping it around his shoulders, before striding past Harry and walking out of the office, leaving Harry to scramble after him.

They didn't talk for the entire walk to the edge of the ground. When the reached a point where they could Apparate, Harry silently grabbed onto Dumbledore's good arm and braced himself.

In an instant, they were standing on the outskirts of a little, gingerbread house village, which was covered in a fine layer of dusty snow. Harry bent over to catch his breath, realizing almost too late that Dumbledore had started walking into the town. Harry jogged to catch up with the professor's long strides, reaching him just as they stepped up to an old war memorial. As they got closer, it turned into a statue of Harry's mum and dad, with a little baby Harry cradled in Lily's arms.

"It was erected after they died. In memory of what they sacrificed to keep their child safe. Many wizarding parents strive to be as loyal and loving as James and Lily." Dumbledore muttered. Then they stood in silence, until Harry had gotten his fill of looking at the statue.

Then, as if on cue, Dumbledore started walking again, toward a little church at the edge of town that was wrapped in Christmas lights.

"Happy Christmas, Harry." Dumbledore muttered as they got closer.

"Happy Christmas, Professor Dumbledore." Harry muttered back.

And then they had made it to the gate of the little graveyard next to the church, and Dumbledore hesitated in his stride for the first time since they left his office.

"Harry, if you don't…"

"I want to, sir. I want to see my parents' graves." Harry cut him off.

So, Dumbledore opened the gate, walking through as if with practiced ease. Harry, however, could see the way the professor tensed, his hands balling into fists and his shoulders setting tightly. Dumbledore was stressed in a way that Harry had never seen him stressed before. Which was saying something, since they had regular meetings and discussions about the darkest wizard that ever lived.

Dumbledore pointed forward and to the right, indicating to Harry that his parents' graves were in that direction. Harry briefly considered following Dumbledore to wherever he was going – presumably to the graves of his mother and sister, but he didn't. He figured that his professor wanted privacy, or else he wouldn't have pointed away.

So, Harry left Dumbledore's side, sure that his teacher would keep him safe. He walked in the direction that he'd pointed, but there were so many graves that it took him nearly twenty minutes to find the ones that he was looking for.

And then, he saw them.

A shared headstone, carved with both of their names and dates. Fresh snow covering the top of it, and dusting the ground under which Harry's parents lay, in an endless slumber.

Harry wondered if they would be proud of him, of what he had done. He had good friends, good marks in most of his classes (History of Magic and Divination were rubbish courses anyway, they wouldn't care about his marks in those, right?), he played Quidditch like his father. He had fought in many battles, stood up to Voldemort on four separate accounts (if you didn't include the one when he was one year old) and won every one of them. He had battled a Basilisk, a werewolf, a dragon, and more. He was actively working toward the downfall of the wizard who had ended their lives.

Yes, he thought, they would be proud of him. The problem was: if they hadn't died, if Voldemort hadn't tried to kill him when he was a baby – would he have achieved all those things? Certainly not. If Voldemort hadn't been (temporarily) defeated all those years ago, he probably would have destroyed Hogwarts and everything else that shaped Harry's life by now. And, if Voldemort hadn't attacked him, Harry wouldn't have been attacked so many times. He wouldn't have needed to fight a basilisk or battle in the Triwizard Tournament. He would just be a normal kid.

Sometimes, Harry wished he could be just a kid. Wished his biggest worry in the world would be whether Gryffindor won the next Quidditch match, or having to write a neglected Potions essay.

Instead, his worries were whether he would be able to stop Voldemort before he destroyed everything. It wasn't fair.

But, Harry knew that his experiences made him who he was. If he hadn't lived with the Dursleys, hadn't become friends with Ron and Hermione, hadn't gone through all the trials he had in all his years at Hogwarts… he wouldn't be Harry.

Still, Harry sometimes found that he envied the other boys in his dormitory. Dean, and Seamus, and Neville. At least they didn't have the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Harry didn't hear Dumbledore come up behind him, didn't notice that his Headmaster had followed him over here until he felt a heavy hand fall onto his shoulder.

He also hadn't realized he was crying until he came out of his thoughts and noticed the frozen saltwater on his cheeks. He hastily broke the tears off his face, letting them fall into the snow at his feet.

Then he looked up at Dumbledore, at the tense set to his shoulders (even worse than when they had walked into the graveyard), the way his hand was clamped tightly onto his shoulder. He noticed that the twinkle in Dumbledore's eye – which was usually very prominent, even these days when Voldemort was rising back into his power – was dimmed, almost nonexistent.

He turned back toward his parents' graves, letting the hand on his shoulder ground him back into reality. He didn't want to get lost in his thoughts about how unfair everything was again.

And then he felt the hand on his shoulder start to tremble and, thinking of no other alternative, Harry reached up and gently placed his on hand atop Dumbledore's, hoping that the gesture would give his professor some comfort. It had worked for him.

As they stood there, staring at the headstone of two innocent people, cut down during the reign of a terrible, bloodthirsty wizard… they grieved. They grieved for everyone that had been lost, everyone killed by Voldemort and his followers, everyone that would be before he was destroyed for good.

And then they left, walking out of the graveyard in silence, making their way out of the little town and Apparating back to the edge of the grounds of Hogwarts.

Because, in the grand scheme of things, there was no time to grieve. There was no time to stand around and cry for the people who had died, because many more would be killed if they didn't work together to stop Voldemort.

It wasn't a nice thought, wasn't something that they wanted to speak aloud, but they both knew it to be true. There was no time to grieve for fallen soldiers when you were in the middle of a warzone. Every second counts.


End file.
